


The Assholes Write Letters to Each Other

by moboe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: -Ish, Angst, F/M, Fallen!Castiel, Fluff, I'm so sorry I suck at tagging, Jess is sort of in this??, M/M, Post-Season Eight, pre-season nine, why do I always wait like a year before posting things i've written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moboe/pseuds/moboe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel and Dean both want to get their feelings off of their chest, but not necessarily in front of their faces. So they write letters, never meant to be sent out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dear Cas

Dear Cas,  
I know this is kind of weird—me writing you a letter when I could just talk to you (you live right across the damn hall from me). But here’s the thing… Some things I need to say, I just don’t necessarily want you to hear them. If that makes any sense. Which, it probably doesn’t, but you know. You can’t sue me.

Wow. This letter is getting off to a great start. Um. First things first—you need to stop being so goddamned attractive, okay? You couldn’t have picked a better vessel that wouldn’t get me hot and bothered every time I see you without that shapeless trench coat on? One that looked a little less like “Castiel” and more like “Metatron”? But I guess that’s not really your fault. You didn’t know that it would affect me the way it does—shit, you probably _still_ don’t know how it affects me.

Second thing: Stop “not understanding references.” I find it way too endearing for my own health, and one of these days (if you don’t stop) I’m going to end up grabbing hold of you and kissing the shit out of you when you get that confused-as-fuck face after I make a Star Trek reference. So, either watch a goddamned movie/television show, or just stop making that face. Because it’s getting more difficult as time goes on.

Before, you know, before you fell. It was easier. I didn’t get as strong of an urge to kiss you or touch you or run my fingers through your hair because I could just remind myself, “He’s an angel, idiot. I don’t think that’s very looked-upon in Heaven.” But, now, man, _fuck_ Heaven. It’s screwed us enough, and besides, you aren’t even a damn angel any more. 

Okay, moving on. Stop giving me those looks. And don’t even pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about this time, Cas. Those little looks that you give me when you think that I’m not looking, or I can’t see. The ones that make my stomach shrivel into a little ball and make my body feel all warm and light. Because, honestly, I don’t know if you know what those looks mean, but I think that if you did, you would stop making them at me. Point the looks somewhere that deserves it. 

Don’t touch me. Apparently, I can’t even handle a hand on the shoulder without contemplating where else that hand could be at the moment and how much better it would be doing if it was where I wanted it to be. 

Touching me is almost as bad as smiling at me. Okay, I get it, Cas, I’m not going to tell you to stop smiling, because that’s something a little bitch would do. And that I certainly am not. But, could you maybe work on not saving those little smiles for me? Could you maybe give them to everyone, so that I don’t feel so special? Or, not special, really, but more like I’m being crushed under the weight of my heart that’s swelled up eighteen sizes bigger than it should be.

I can barely breathe when you combine the smile with the look. It’s like you’re trying to suffocate me without leaving behind any evidence. Which, I mean, would kind of make sense. I’ve been a pretty shit friend this past week. But, it’s like, ever since you fell, I can’t look at you without wanting to kiss you. I can’t hear you say my name without wanting to know how it tastes when you breathe it into my mouth. I can’t see you in my clothes, dammit, because it turns me on in ways that I had no fucking idea it would.

Something else, Cas—I’m scared. I’m scared that if I make a move, it’s going to become something tragic and everything will change. If things become bad enough, I know you’ll leave. And I can’t handle you leaving again.

Oh yeah, one more thing to stop doing— _stop fucking leaving._

Back to the topic we were previously on: I’m scared. And you know that is a damn difficult thing for me to admit, so you had better appreciate it, asshole. I’m afraid I’ll make a move and you won’t want me to, or that something will happen and while the sex was great, you aren’t going to feel the same way about me that I feel about you. Or it’s going to end up being just another cheap fuck when, god, I want it to be so much more than that. 

Let me tell you something, Cas. I loved Lisa. I know I did; I know what love feels like. But what I have with you—what I feel with you—it’s just… So much more profound (to use your own goddamned words). 

I may have loved Lisa, Cas, but I think I’m _in_ love with you. That’s quite a bit different, I think.

And maybe the reason I’m writing all this in a letter that you’ll never see instead of just telling you is because secretly, I don’t want you to stop any of these things.

God forgive me for how fucking gay this is. 

Dean


	2. Dear Dean

Dean.

I need to tell you something, but from what I’ve gathered from you and Sam, I probably shouldn’t actually tell you. I probably shouldn’t make you aware of how I feel. But I still need to “get it out.” I can’t live without at least the illusion that I have lain my feelings bare. So I write this letter. It is never to be sent out, but only so that I won’t have to deal with all these…emotions so bottled within me.

I think I have felt this…thing…for a very long time. But Dean, I do not think you will understand that when I say “a very long time,” I mean that I felt it the moment I met you (which is, in my book, the second I laid my hand on you in Hell). 

Every time you would make a snide comment, every time you would pray to me, every single time I would see you, it would only grow stronger. And just when I thought it was not physically possible for this feeling to be any stronger, for me to be in any larger an amount of pain, I Fell. Human emotions swarmed me. No longer was I sad, but instead wracked with a gaping hole in my chest that didn’t just project sorrow, but pain as well. I couldn’t just want something, it was sudden that I felt as though I needed it—even though I knew this not to be true. 

Something I knew I needed the moment I Fell, Dean, though, was you. I knew from the moment that my eyes opened and everything was so much more, that the only person that could help me (i.e., the only person I _wanted_ to help me), was you. Sam, too, of course, but you in particular. 

I sensed I would need you for something altogether different than what I would need Sam for. But that was only for a few moments after the initial Fall. After that, all of my previous wisdom seemed to have vanished. 

Do not misunderstand me, I am still filled to the brim with knowledge, but this is different. Knowing what happened a thousand years ago to the second is much different than knowing the correct path to take in the future. As an angel, I may not have had the best sense of direction when it came to choosing paths (after all, I have rebelled one too many times), but I knew the gist. I knew the consequences. The moment that I knew I needed you, and all wisdom left me, I didn’t know what to do—other than to find you.

When I did find you (or, more appropriately, when you found me), I felt this…thing. Sitting in my gut. (Other than the ridiculous hunger. This was much different.) It was hot, and it made me want to touch you.

Then I knew what it was. I had felt this before, but it had been nowhere near the amount of magnified that it had been then (and that it has been every day since). I wanted you. I wanted your lips on my own, and your touch on my skin. I wanted to taste your breath and know what you sounded like when I nipped at the skin between your neck and shoulder. The feeling was staggering, and even now, every time you give me that _look,_ the one that, in a way, screams “amazed,” I feel it again. Although, nothing makes me feel this more than when you look at me in the way that makes you seem like you want to scream, “You’re _mine._ ” 

I would like to be. I would like to be yours. I would like you to be mine. But I don’t think it’s going to happen. I’m sure I would say something wrong or make you uncomfortable, and you wouldn’t want to be with me any longer. 

I need you to know that when I was searching for a name to take, and you automatically responded, “Winchester,” a little too fast, as if you were afraid I would pick anything else, my blood rushed through my veins. Because that was the name I wanted all along, I just didn’t want to ask for it. 

I like the way things are now.

I just want them to be different.

I want you to want me, too.

I want, I want, I want.

But, Dean, I need you to love me. Even if you aren’t in love with me the way I am positive I am with you, I need you to always be my friend. Even if we cannot share lingering touches in the hallway, or even if I will never know what it feels like to have your lips molded against mine, or to wake up with your arm slung over my middle. 

I need you, Dean. I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to reciprocate the need—or, really, so long to realize that I reciprocate the need. But I need you. In any form. I just need you. 

Castiel


	3. Dear Cas & Dean

Cas & Dean,

You guys are morons. I read both of these letters (yeah, I know I wasn’t supposed to. Sue me.) and I swear to God if you guys don’t get together within the next week, I will literally walk into Cas’ room, grab him, and shove him into Dean’s room. I’m locking the door closed and not unlocking it until it’s clear that you two have not only worked out your goddamned problems, but had a thorough fuck as well. 

I’m not going to be listening, don’t worry you pervert (yeah, I’m talking to you, Dean), but if I ask you a question and you don’t answer with your happy-sex voice, I’m leaving you in there for another two hours. (Don’t freak out about me knowing what that sounds like. I’ve lived in too many motel rooms with you before.)

Don’t make me do this,  
Sam


	4. Dear Jess

Dear Jess,

My brother is a moron. At the moment, I have him locked in his room with the love of his life, but instead of getting it on, he’s banging on the door and demanding I let him out.

Okay, I just reread the first paragraph, and I think I can understand where you would be confused with this.

We’ve been travelling with this guy for the past five years, and I’m pretty sure Dean’s loved him since at least the middle of the second year. I’m pretty sure Cas has loved him since before Dean even knew he existed. Neither of them have acknowledged it to the other, though.

And then I find these goddamned letters in their rooms—like the ones I’ve been writing to you lately—confessing their love for each other. This would be great, except for the fact that they both made it very clear within the contents of the letter that it isn’t to be sent off. The other isn’t supposed to read it.

Wanna know why? Because they’re both too chickenshit. Although, I suppose if I had to choose to be your friend for the rest of my life and never touch you the way I wanted to, or to lose you and never see you again, knowing for sure that you don’t feel the same about me that I do you…

Yeah, I’d definitely choose the former.

Good thing these two dipshits have sneaky, conniving Sam, though. I’m sure eventually, they’ll kiss or some shit. And then everything’ll be great, and I’ll get sad or jealous or angry or whatever because you’re gone, and they keep making these faces at each other, but you know, I think Dean deserves to be happy. Just this once, I think being happy would be good for him. 

And maybe Cas might remove that gargantuan stick from out of his ass. But I don’t want to hope too much. 

I love you, Jess. And I miss you. I wish you were here with me so you could agree with me on this (because I’m positive if you were here, you would most definitely agree with me on this). 

I wish you were here.

Sam


End file.
